


The Imitation Game

by Hipsterian



Category: Day6 (Band), Winner (Band)
Genre: Blood and Gore, Detectives, M/M, Murderers, Serial Killer, based on the movie "The Copycat", many kills to name them all
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-27
Updated: 2020-12-27
Packaged: 2021-03-10 23:14:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 21,317
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28365246
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hipsterian/pseuds/Hipsterian
Summary: There is a wave of horrible crimes shaking Seoul. DC Seunghoon is undergoing the investigation with his team and with the help of a psychiatrist, Dr Kim Jinwoo.
Relationships: Kim Jinwoo/Lee Seunghoon, Kim Jinwoo/Song Minho | Mino
Comments: 4
Kudos: 11





	The Imitation Game

**Author's Note:**

> Hello there!
> 
> I watched the movie "The Copycat" and, immediately, this idea came into my head. And I couldn't stop it.  
> It took me a long time to finish it and it is filled with details of crimes that took place in real life by real serial killers (all names mentioned are real).  
> Anyhow, I hope you can enjoy it.  
> Also, English is not my native tongue, so I'm sorry for all the mistakes that you will find here.
> 
> Let me know if you liked it.  
> Thanks for your time reading this story!

**The Imitation Game**

You have the details, even the girl crumbled down under your fingertips.

She is not exactly the same, but she'll have to do: after all, the original one has been dead for years, buried deep down into the ground, this is a reproduction because playing with a corpse wouldn't be fun at all, won't give any pleasure, right, Minho? You can’t unearth her now, she would be all dusty bones, so a similar one should be enough to get his attention. And you wonder If Kim Jinwoo will take the bait, if he will dance at the sound of your name, at your command, or if he will be so scared, curled inside his bed, unable to move, thinking about what you are capable of doing – of the things you do for his love. Or maybe he won't even notice the implied thread, the reference you so carefully have manufactured, placed along like bread crumbles for him to follow. Because you want him to play, to pay you attention, to listen to your claims - him alone, you want to ravish his mere presence, relishing into his name.

You don't kill for fun, no, it runs deeper than that: it is for your pride, to show up what you are capable off, to show him that you, too, know.

He has studied serial killers, has studied you, and you want to gift him a case to get involved, hands it to him: you want him to want you - want him to get lost in you, to have him playing inside your mind, analysing your thoughts, the deep feelings that you have for him.

You look at your masterpiece. Laying on the tub, strangled with a stocking around her neck, laced around tight enough to stop the air caught in between parted teeth, her eyes wide open, coloured red, skin cold under your fingertips, blue lips. Beautiful still, a perfect replica: Jinwoo has to see it, the police have to call him in, need his help, you can't make it any clearer. How many more have to die before they give you what you desire? It's not that complicated, but the police department is so terrible they haven't even noticed you are copying the master killers – like an apprentice, you are following their steps. Such a bunch of idiots. Do you have to spell it out for them to get it? It's like playing chess with a newbie, a rival that doesn't know the rules, and you don't have time to teach them - that's why they need Jinwoo.

You have sow all the clues for them to do the right thing - admitting that they are useless, ask for help to the only man that can solve this, the only person who knows your mind, the one you have secretly followed, sneaking around, observing in the distance, watching him put the pieces together about other cases, never you, always others. But it is about to change, you will soon become his friend. 

He has interviewed the culprits, analysed their behaviour, their psychological reasoning, and you want the same: to be appreciated by Jinwoo, to be seen, acknowledged. You itch to be his inspiration, to stir his imagination with your cases, your voice filling him with dreams of murders that you will make possible only for him (he only needs to say it, to be yours and you will commit your soul to make him happy).

You take your tools and recreate the scene to the smallest detail. She looks so peaceful, lying still on the bathtub, your hands on her neck, covering the panties that have strangled her. Beautiful. You don't particularly enjoy to kill, but the grace that falls upon them once you're done with their lives, how mighty it makes you feel, important – their lives depend on you, they linger between your fingers, at your mercy, at your disposition. They shake and beg and crumble down under your power but it's not that what you look for, and she has put in a fight, you had to take care to remove your DNA from beneath her nails, erase any trace, any memory of it that can track you down.

Jennie was her name, just like the original victim. Just perfect; it has been rather hard to find, a devilish coincidence to have come across her, with her slanted eyes and burgundy smile. It feels like a pity that she has to die for you. She has been a teaser, scratching and contorting, trying to escape, to avoid her fate - to avoid being your piece, a part of a scheme. She has left traces on you, rivulets of scarlet blooming on you, she has been tough, raw, kicking and shaking, evading your grab, your control. In the end, it was just a matter of seconds before she perished between your fingers, closing her throat, fighting for air.

You leave her there, like a painting, just as someone else did before you, in another time far away – and his name will rise again, never forgotten, burned into history, into the collective memory.

* * *

"It's a copycat," DC Seunghoon says observing the shreds of evidence. "It has been from the start," he sighs, taking another picture of the scene.

"Her name was Kim Jennie," PC Seungyoon offers, looking at the ID he has extracted from her purse, shaking his head, sadly.

"Even the same name, the bastard," Seunghoon nods, examines the corpse. "The same method as before, the perfect imitation of the Boston serial killer, DeSalvo, but he doesn't rape them. Yet, I guess," he explains, collecting evidence with gloves and zipped bags. “Which implies that he doesn’t do it for sexual pleasure, but because he can,” and he shakes his head, repelled. This has been hard: the third victim in a month.

"I see," agrees PC Seungyoon. "He strangled her with her own panties, but she fought, unlike the other victims, she has scratches and bruises, not post-mortem," he notes, examining the corpse. She is pretty and elegant, looks intelligent, not the type to let an intruder in.

"She let him in," DC says, "she has an alarm, but it didn't ring, so she must have known him, or not think of him as a threat," and he skims around, noticing more similitude. "DeSalvo killed a total amount of 13 women. We know his ways, it shouldn't be this hard to find him."

"I think," says Seungyoon, "that he is sending us a message. What do serial killers want?" Seunghoon looks at him, interested. "Fame, he wants our attention, he kills because he wants to be talked about. If we ignore it, won't it worsen the situation?" he wonders.

"Probably," he agrees, "but we are left with little options here," he confesses. "We can reveal it to the press, leak it and let fear spread around. Or keep it between the department, and let him continue with his criminal acts," he ponders.

"DC Seunghoon, didn't you know an expert? We could consult him," Seungyoon suggests. Maybe that would be of help, the third way, the path in the middle. Anyway, it's good to give it a try - anything to stop this killer.

"Dr Kim Jinwoo?" he wonders. He has worked with him before, knows him from college: has met him during Psychology of a Crime, years ago. He is a psychiatrist, expert on serial killers behaviour, an eminence on this field. He is a famous writer, has done conferences all around Korea, has published books and conducted several studies to inspect the reasons behind murderers' minds, tried to explain their habits, rationalise their actions. He is an authority on this and, evidently, his knowledge can come very handy, to solve this maze. "I'll give him a call," Seunghoon replies, fishing his phone and searching for that name.

* * *

The call arrives while you are watching him - you always make time for Jinwoo, spare a minute to contemplate his beauty, his smile, planning to take it, covered in silk blood.

"Seunghoonie?" and his voice sounds like paradise in earth, its music to your ears. And the name rolls in your mind. You know it, Seunghoon, the DC covering your murders. So it has finally happened. And by the familiar inflexion on Jinwoo's speech, you deduce that they are, somehow, in friendly terms, which raises suspicion on you.

So now Jinwoo is in the game, ready to play at your command, ready to try and catch you, though you won't let him come around - not yet, you want to savour the moment, relish into it, you have worked so hard and diligently, it's just fair. He continues talking with the DC, far too long, minutes pass and you stare at him, wondering what he is saying, what news he is receiving, why this is taking so long, why is Jinwoo smiling into the phone. Your nails scratch your skin, grumbling. That look should be yours - you’ll make sure to teach him how to behave, that he belongs to you.

He should be studying you, not him. You, who have done everything to get his attention, you, who have reaped so many lives, cut them short for him to see, for him to find you, just for Jinwoo to be all smitten over the phone. Rage is not a quiet thing, not any more.

* * *

"He is an emulator," Seunghoon explains, "I'll send you the details, but it's all confidential," he sighs, rubbing his eyes. He hasn't sleep properly in weeks, too immersed in this case, surviving out of adrenaline and coffee - and the constants nags of Seungyoon.

"I know," Jinwoo agrees, hanging up. Seunghoon takes one last look at the crime scene and lets the CSI in, to fully examine the place, looking for DNA or any other trace that can put a name on the murderer.

"It feels like he is toying with us, with all this imitation," Seunghoon mumbles, yawning. "Let's go, Jinwoo is waiting for the official report to give us his opinion, any input or insight can be of help. And he knows a big deal about serial killers and mental misfits."

"This person, though, knows exactly what he is doing," point out Seungyoon.

"Yes, so far the copies are borderline perfect. He has put so many thoughts and care into this, like a craft. So maybe we should look for crafty people, very methodical and consistent," Seunghoon notes, his eyes on Jennie, gracefully placed on the bathtub, looking like a porcelain doll, broken but perfect still: like a stage where everything has been thoroughly planned and calculated.

"He is a fan of DeSalvo, too. So far he has killed like him three times. I hope there won't be a next one,” adds Seungyoon, scribbling down on his notepad, recording all that is been said. “He seems like a disciple of him,” he continues, his eyes puffed with exhaustion.

* * *

You close the book with a grinning heart.

He has taught you all you know, not intentionally, of course, he would never condone what you do with his books, with his lore. Your fingers trace his profile, the page where his picture is. You read his life, his achievements, smiling at him.

If you shut your eyes, it feels like his voice is talking directly to you, calling you by your name. Like the dreams that you have where Jinwoo is everything you can ever care about - and it's not only a dream, it's your reality as well, his picture expands and blows away your mind – his beauty is out of this world and you wonder how pretty he would look with you inside of him. You summon his voice, the recollections of your time together - when you assisted to his conference at SNU years ago. You remember his face, his eyes, how they shined while looking at you, unknowingly, unrelentingly. Your fascination with death and murderers rose like tides while listening to him, to his explanations and, for a split moment, he was everything, the ground beneath your feet. He is your inspiration, the reason behind your acts, the reason why you do it all. He has shown you the way, how your mind works, spinning. He isn't aware, of course, but he opened the window for you to express yourself - you have begun imitating but, soon, you will find your own path, your own style.

You look at the page and smile back to him.

* * *

Jinwoo looks at the evidence alongside with a warm cup of coffee - strong, fragrant, just the way he likes it. He has been awake since last night, analysing, studying, hasn't arrived at a conclusion yet, but he is suspicious. There are details, something buggering. There is a fact there, but he can't point it out, throbbing at the back of his mind. Something that sounds like a thing he has said, a part of a seminar he imparted long ago.

He opens his computer and checks his notes.

The laced stocking – this is something that DeSalvo didn’t do. Jinwoo writes it down, looks at old articles from the period of the original crimes, compares the scenes, the corpse, the proof. He scrolls across the database, looking for this exact pattern but nothing comes up. This is a particular mark, not an accident, a slip-up. No, this person has put great effort to replicate the DeSalvo cases, so this has to be his signature – a bow; a gift to the police, to the public, a symbolic representation of his power to present death and life.

* * *

You watch around. It is all clean and tidy, Jinwoo takes good care of his home. You lay on his bed, imagining that he is rolling on top of you, fondling his way to your lips, holding you. There is a smile gleaming on you, recreating in your mind: so sweet, so beautiful, you want to reach him with your hands, pull him in, kissing away the distance – but you only swallow air, kicking you out of your daydreaming.

You walk freely through his room as if it were yours, contemplating his belongings – you sniff his shampoo, spray his perfume on you, kiss the pictures he has, leaving a fading lip balm mark on the frames for him to notice. You unfold his things, sink into his shirts, breathing in his fragrance, you open his drawers and hold his underwear, imagine him in them, a shirt open revealing his torso, his long, pale legs. You take a shirt from its hanger, put it on top of your sweater in front of the mirror: you look good in it and, for an instant, you contemplate taking it with you, as a memento, something to remind you of him, something you can carry on unnoticed and that embrace his essence, his warmness, that has touched his skin and keeps a memory of it imprinted on your mind.

Jinwoo has good taste: a pretty house, pretty clothes, a pretty life that should belong to you. You wander around, glancing at everything, imagining what it has been denied to you, what it is your right to have. Your fingers draw hearts over trapped photographs, tracing the letters of his degrees – Psychiatry, Criminology, you grin at them, at all of his accomplishments, proud like a lover, admiring him – at all his knowledge compiled inside papers that you will test soon. You skim over shelf-books, reading titles that you are familiar with, that you have at home – you take his thesis and thumb through it, noting details, memorising the taste of his name over your tongue, how sweet it bangs between your teeth, where it always lingers. You like the feeling of being inside his safest place – how easy it has been, how much you have been craving for it, savouring every second, every opportunity of being close to him, holding into his perfume, the smell of his sheets, the texture of his smile plastered in pictures you have to refrain from taking down, taking them with you – but you have lusted over them, ravishing the crystal surface with lipstick that won’t be erased, smudged all over, a proof of your presence here, of your power over Jinwoo.

You know that he knows, you don’t need to flick across his papers – but you do it anyway, unable to stoppage yourself. He has noticed it, just like you predicted – nothing escapes his pure, bright eyes that you so much want to be bathed with.

You leave a token to him to find out – a little bow made out of red silk: a formal invitation to track you down.

She, too, diminishes, like a flame with no oxygen, wavering for air, her neck obstructed by the stocking you have tied her with, bonded her to death. She rises and falls, unbalanced, you watch her cadence change until she stays still, one last tremble before collapsing, a ragged doll with porcelain skin. You smile at her, brushes her freckles, fingers tangled around her hair – like Jinwoo’s, it is soft and dark, a pool of desires you want to dip in, never come out. Even her name was pretty: Rosé and, like a flower without the sun stroking her delicate, lithe petals, she withered with white knuckles around her slender, bonny neck, covered in silk stocking that left dim hollow traces on her pale skin. It had taken days to encounter her, the gem that she was, resembling those from DeSalvo's: the perfect victim for your fifth kill. And you wonder how many more will have to suffer and perish? Until when the police will remain silent about you? You want to spread fear and terror, you want your name in front pages, to appear in the news, to have brigades of police searching you, trying to halt you – but you will only stop if Jinwoo allows you to belong to his heart, to be yours entirely, devotedly. You only want Jinwoo and everything you are doing is only for him to see how deep is your love, how far you are willing to go to be accepted by him – to be granted to be by his side.

In the radio they are playing your song, so you turn the volume up, speed up, thinking of Jinwoo, singing his name amid the lyrics, a desperate growl, a call for him to find you. How much more will you have to wait, Minho? It’s been years and nothing has lasted, all the moments together slip through your fingertips like water, memories wavering, oceans of them bathing your skin, make it itch with endless pain and long that prickles deep inside your core – because he is all your heart can keep, all that matters, all that continues to run away from your reach, even when you plan it ominously, he is continuously escaping (constantly neglecting you).

You stop for gas at the interstate station and see it printed on paper: Rose’s corpse copes the front page in black and white ink. You run your fingers over her figure, tracing her pretty face, the patch on her skin that you created, her broken smile, the gloom hanging around the picture and that you have recreated from DeSalvo’s cases. You read it avidly, buy a copy to keep, to preserve – your first time on the news, you are only flourishing (and now that you had had a taste of fame, now that the tint is drowning in your veins, you feel the rush of the high, the adrenaline running will, smiling through your eyes). You are going to top the front page again – and Jinwoo will see it, maybe he will have a word about yourself and you wonder, already, if he is proud of you or will reject you again.

You drive fast to enjoy the momentum while it lasts.

You are not insane or mental as some journalists are making you look like: you are totally rational, you are aware of your wrongdoings but can’t stop yourself – not with the notion of Jinwoo tracing you lingering in your chest, not when you are so close to getting what you crave for, what you deserve. No, you don’t kill for pleasure – there are other things that give you the buzz, like observing Jinwoo, revelling in the ecstasies that watching him provides you, all the dreams you have of owning him, of toying with him the way he has done with you before (playing with your mind, with your heart: you want to give him back what he did first). He is the zest you are always hatching, your constant, the drug you need and that is constantly flooding your veins, the tripping of hopes and dreams that reality crashes down but that you still chase after because Jinwoo is your sustain, your kernel. No, you kill not for fulfilment or satisfaction – Jinwoo is the only bliss in your life, - but for him to notice, for him to come home, to come to you – to find you through the maze of cues and tips you have assembled, believing that Jinwoo will understand, walk along the path you have manufactured. There is no remorse in you; after all the victims are just mere object for a greater cause – and it’s their fault for being named the way they were, it has nothing to do with you, you are just recreating in the end, the blame is on them for not knowing any better, for letting him in, for allowing him to murder them with any opposition, with any skirmish – just a few blemishes and scratches, none of them were a real deal or match.

* * *

“Someone has leaked it to the press,” PC Kang says, sighing, looking at the congregation in front of the crime scene.

“Like a swarm of flies, they come,” DC Lee, too, heaves, ignoring questions, pushing and shoving through the crowd of media reporters and curious reunited, through the horde of loud voices asking for information, shaking him for attention. “I just hope it wasn’t any of our team,” he opens the door of the apartment complex and leads the way, followed by Seungyoon, who rushes after him, leaving behind the cloud of noises and camera flashes that ignites a morning that has just risen.

The display is familiar, too familiar for his taste. A girl swirling in her bathtub, a pair of stockings strangling, hanging from her neck. Body covered with underwear, her clothes in a prime pile next to her. Perfectly staged again. Seungyoon takes pictures of the details while Seunghoon asks around, interrogating neighbours, looking for evidence, a link, a thread, something that can stop this murderer that now will be everywhere.

“Her name was Rose,” Seunghoon takes notes, quickly scribbling information he gathers. “Another one of DeSalvo’s victims,” he continues, “it’s him again, no doubts,” and Seungyoon nods, agreeing with his statements.

“Here, another pantyhose lace,” PC Younghyun says, handing Seunghoon a plastic bag with the proof. A pair of silk hosieries folded to form a perfect, little bow that hangs around the victim’s neck like a present, the signature of the criminal.

“Sure we won’t find any prints on it,” Seunghoon shakes his head, tired. It has been a hell of a week – a hell of a month, actually, investigating a serial killer who sums up to four murders on his shoulders and that doesn’t seem to stop any time soon.

“How many has it been?” PC Younghyun asks, raising his brows in surprise. DC Seunghoon puts a hand on his shoulder, reassuringly, smiles warily at his junior.

“Too many, we need to detain him: the last thing we need at the moment is another Hwanseong serial killer, to get the media involved and a panic spree going around the country due to him,” he firmly says, glancing at the polices gathered for the case with stern eyes. “Understood? I’ll get my hands on anyone who speaks to the press without my consent,” he adds, “now, let’s do our best to solve this and go home with a lighter heart.”

“Who is that?” PC Younghyun wonders, looking puzzled. PC Seungyoon grins at him friendly.

“You probably weren’t born yet,” he explains, “he was Lee Chunjae. He was active between 1986 and 1991 and never was caught. He confessed his crimes much later and was only accused of one murder. It was one of the most notorious cases in the country,” Seungyoon adds.

“And we don’t want it to happen again, so we will do all in our power to catch this bastard,” cheers Seunghoon, boosting the mood of the police force bundled to solve the killings. There are applauses and more bolster and Seunghoon looks around, comforted to see that his boys are willing to work to exhaustion with him, to do everything possible to cuff whoever that is behind this murders – to stop the impostor reviving the infamous Boston Strangler and covering Seoul with a veil of fright because anyone could be the next. “Now, back to work boys!” and he turns around, examining painstakingly the flat, going through all the evidence and proves collected, verifying alibis and checking CCTV’s recordings of the vicinity – but there is nothing, not a single clue, a hint that will lead them forward. He is dedicated and precise, he moves around like a pale ghost, sneaking, fading out and Seunghoon ruffles his hair in despair, the evidence under his eyes making no sense at all. The DC grumbles, tumbling down to the floor. Is then when the call comes. Seunghoon takes the phone and smiles at the ID displayed.

“He has been to my place,” Jinwoo says plainly, tranquil.

“Who?” Seunghoon asks, rubbing his eyes with the back of his hand, smearing sleep away from his head.

“Your killer. Now my stalker as well, it seems,” and he is so calm even when he has just been assaulted – his house searched, invaded, lipstick besmirching his pictures, fingertips all over the mirror, a tiny bow on his desk, the smell of housebreaking covering the surfaces, the lingering sensation of being observed, contemplated, a shadow following, eyes on him on the street, while sleeping. He has a gut but intuition always frail, and, after all, he is a man of knowledge, so he has put his hunch apart, tearing them, ripping them open, finding explanations, rationalising them – exhaustion, a wild imagination, a trigger, - but he was right all along and he regrets it: not taking actions – not telling Seunghoon first. “He has recreated in here, has kissed my photos, ugh,” he says, cross-examining the grounds.

“I’ll be there in a minute,” the DC promises but Jinwoo shakes his head, his dark hair swirling within the move. It won’t do – his apartment has been compromised, it is not safe; not only for him but for anyone else.

“I’ll meet you at the station,” and hangs up.

Jinwoo collects the few belongings corrupted, the ones he is sure that has been manipulated, seals them in plastic bags, ensures that the rest stay puts, checks for stalking devices – finds none.

* * *

Because, Minho, you know better, you have others ways to hunt him down: you don’t need to tap his telephone or hack his computer, your methods are more intimal, personal if you might – you have granted access to his home, you can look around, discern from that what’s going on (and you are always preying over him, never far away from him).

And now that he finally has discovered your plan – has intuited your silhouette, now that he is behind your treat, - you leave him be, ignoring the pleading of your heart – you rip it open, emptying it from longing and crave, diluting Jinwoo with blood and tears, wearing him rooted inside is enough, his name rushing down your spine, giving you the high that only him can provide you with, drowning into it, drinking his taste in one go, bottom ups, the flavour swirling, flooding your senses with what you can only picture.

You watch him touching your traces, his fingers indulging your stirred imagination – that his pads are touching your lips, that you can suck them, make him reel into you, kiss his forehead. Jinwoo is so beautiful, you can’t wait to have him for yourself, ready to toy him as you have always fantasied – your hands all over his petite body, nipping, licking, fucking him as hard and deep, leaving him dry, whimpering, begging for more, asking for mercy (just as he has done to you, you want to be emptied by him, pouring all your love to him, let it rain, soak Jinwoo with it). You want to break his resilience, turn him into a mess, a pool of desire you can get submerged in, dip into him like stars in a lonely universe (you want to be the one he leans on, the one he relies on, the only source of pleasure and sins and happiness; you want to be his nightmare and the ease, the remedy to his lone heart, the heat of his fire).

You remember, with your eyes closed, the first time, how he came into you, crossing your life as if nothing, challenging, shinning, a new sun burning fiercely and you had to hold on the urge to pin him against the wall, ravishing him, devouring him with teeth and mouth, your tongue dry with anticipated lust. You followed him to the building, listened to his conference, assisted to all you could go, taking notes, studying him, your orbs always falling on his frame, on his hands, letting his voice drench you, wet on him, drunk on his name. He became your obsession, all you could think about, you got him tattooed over your skin, you allowed him to cut you raw, hurt you so deeply that pain became your best friend – and you yelled to the night, growling for him, asking the stars for a wish: to be bestowed by him, granted by his fingers dancing on your bones, your mouth on his collarbones, nibbling, swallowing him all, reaping him alive.

He is still your craze, your addiction, the tangle you are lost in and you aren’t even looking for the exit, glad to be trapped by him, caged between his fingers, unaware of his power over you – and, for him, you would do it all, you will prove your value.

They are dribbling over her and you find it disgusting – and also perfect. She walks past them stoically, ignoring the banter, the catcalls, all the names they are calling her. She gets into her car and turns on the engine when one of the boys approaches. But you are faster. You knock on her window and she smiles, reassured – you look innocent, inoffensive. She rolls it down, greets you with bright, brown eyes. She is pretty, for sure, elegant, soft, independent and brave, she has carried herself like a goddess – and you feel bad for what it is about to unfold, the fate that is waiting for her.

She opens the door for you and kindly drives you; the night is barren, the sky black, the stars covered by wind and clouds and rain. She makes small talk easily, tells you her name, asks if you have seen the news, the rumours that run deep on the streets – rumours about a new serial killer, you are the hot topic in town. You laugh at it, tell her not to worry – because her time is off, she won’t welcome another morning, she will end soon. She sweeps her long, dark, wavy hair out of her shoulder, pushing it to the back, revealing a long, appealing neck that resembles Jinwoo’s – and you refrain the urge to bite on it, to sink into the sin that Jinwoo’s memory is. She says something you can’t grasp, too immerse in Jinwoo to wonder. She smiles politely and she is so pretty, it feels like a waste – but she has appeared, volunteered, a gift to you; you haven’t planned it, it is just occurring accordingly, by chance. She glances at the road, your head wanders in the thoughts of how will she look like with a bullet crossing her silky forehead, her raven hair splashed in scarlet paint, gushing from her drilled-riled skull. You can’t wait to pull the trigger on her, the image luring you, captivating your mind with displays of her profile looking at you from the side, empty, gloom, at your mercy.

You take the gun and she stares at you in awe. She has no time to be surprised, not when the bullet smashes her skull, trespassing her temples, from side to side, splashing red on the lateral of her pretty face, her plushy lips straightened in a crossed pout, head smacking against the stirring wheel, folded, looking at you with her eyes wide opened. You smile back at her, tosses her hair, rearrange it until is perfectly in slides a CD inside the reproducer for him to find – for him to listen to your voice, the album you always carry around because it is filled with all the words you have sung to Jinwoo before. Between her plump, parted lips, you introduce a letter, a card, the final invitation for Jinwoo to accept – an invitation to this whole imitation game. Her tongue leave a slick sensation trickling on your fingers and you push it down her throat, a rolled paper suck on her gullet – and you had to rush to write it down on your notebook because this hasn’t been planned, it has been handed to you by luck. You hide the .44 calibre handgun in a paper bag, where you carried it earlier and leave the car, park in a residential area of black windows and empty houses.

You make the call and wait, expectant, wondering if he will also appear, if you will be able to have another bite of him, to get high once more, the lingering sensation of Jinwoo’s glassy lips remaining on the tip of your mind, replaying it like a melody, rewinding it like the fantasy that it is.

* * *

Jinwoo waits at the police station, catching up with officer Sungjin – who was a student of him before enrolling. He beacons at the sight of his old teacher, welcoming him in, filling him in with the latest news he can report to Jinwoo.

“DC Seunghoon has been very busy with this copy-cat killer,” he explains, showing him the records of the previous homicides. The victims are all girls, all living in Seoul, all with names from DeSalvo’s cases – Amber, Suzy, Jennie, Rose. It is obvious that he is very detailed, that his crimes are perfect replicas of the originals ones – even the names are the same and it is frightening, scaring to notice all the likeness. But the divergences from the canon are the more revealing leads they have at the moment.

“He doesn’t rape them,” Jinwoo says, “there aren’t signs of fight or defence, so he is very skilled, he convinced them to get him in without raising suspicions, so he must be only average, not threatening looking,” he continues, Sungjin nodding at his dissertation. “Sungjin, do you remember one of my lectures? I said that all criminal has his own signature and, so far, the most distinctive bit from his cases and DeSalvo’s is the bow he does with the stocking,” Jinwoo points out, frowning, brow furrowed in concentration. Sungjin looks at Jinwoo with curiosity, waiting for him to continue with his theory. But he doesn’t and Sungjin feels compelled to reply to the implied question – as if being back at college.

“You noted something about it being a tribute to the ones they killed,” he recalls and Jinwoo smiles at him proudly. Indeed, all serial killer wants to be recognised, and, for that, they have distinct patterns that they strictly follow – positions of the body, determinate kind of places, burials, butchering, marks, there are many. He has his own: like a red string that links him to his victims, something to signal that they belong to him, that it’s his doing. It is rare for a serial killer to change their modus operandi, but this one, in particular, is an impostor, he doesn’t have a method yet so he copies others and changes something claim it.

“He is not a sexual predator, so far this hasn’t been his pulsation,” Jinwoo explains after a brief pause, “ and that’s the main difference with DeSalvo, who raped his victims because he was compulsive rapist” Jinwoo resumes, “and, somehow, it has a relation with me, since he has came uninvited into my house,” he adds, shaking his head with disappointing. Jinwoo flips through the pages, skimming through the details compiled, pictures, proves listed, the autopsy. “The methods are the same, strangulation, death for asphyxiation due to having their throats compressed with stockings or other pieces of clothes,” he corroborates, scrutinising the photos attached. Sungjin, near him, trails his eyes, reading upon Jinwoo’s shoulder.

“So, can you provide us with an offender profiling?” he wonders, expectantly – help from a professional like Jinwoo would be of great help to solve this particular case. Jinwoo taps his chin, thinking. He has some observations to share with them – with Seunghoon when he returns with more information from another crime scene. But, though there is consistency in the modus operandi, it is based on someone’s else patterns so a behavioural studio won’t do much; there are little traces of his own demeanour, so it is hard to come up with any linkage analysis. He heaves, worn down.

“It’s been a tough week,” Jinwoo mutters, reclining on the swirling chair in Seunghoon’s office. Sungjin sits, cross-legged, on the desk, keeping him company – asking more about the case, about Jinwoo’s kind interest on it. “Seunghoon asked for help, that’s all I’m doing. I’m not particular drawn to this type of criminals: he is only an imitator, an impostor, trying to gather attention to satisfy his vanity; I’ve seen this all before,” and he sinks deeper into the chair, fingers rubbing his temples, massaging his scalp.

* * *

Jinwoo knows you too well, you think while listening to their banter. But it hurt to hear that the person you care the most doesn’t care about you the slightest. But this will change, soon. You are all over the newspapers – and you hide beneath a page, turning them just to catch a glimpse of Jinwoo. You have the city terrorised, you alone have spread a thick layer of fear, you can feel it, smell it lingering above the sky, rooted in the eyes of your victims. It’s been five in five weeks, and the police are not even closer to catch you – the useless brats, not even with Jinwoo’s help they can manage to come near your name, seize your shadow.

Yes, you reap lives for attention – for his attention solely, so he is at fault, he is the reason, the one to deuced (after all, without him, you would be nothing, another anonymous face in the crowd). And, despite it, Jinwoo is wasting your talent, ignoring it just because you are not a certificated basket case. He will regret it, all he has said; you will reverse the situation, you’ll make him beg, make him suffer the same pain that he is giving you – he will implore you for more, to end his suffering, his longing for you, pray for mercy that you won’t show (because you will milk him dry, take all you always desired – you’ll break his body, his brain, turn him into nothing but a toy to play at leisure, satiating your own devilish mind). Oh, how you relish into this uncertain moment when he will be nothing but dust at your mercy, forced to obey your commands!

“He is probably collecting his notoriety, has a scrapbook full of newspapers,” Jinwoo sighs and, veiled with mist that comes from the most that his own words mean, he is still luminescent, the most beautiful human being and you could spear him, but now you only want to ravish his lips, kill the flood of nonsense he is speaking – Minho, you don’t kill for fun, you kill seeking for love: a love that slides through your fingers like water down the sink.

You’ll prove him all your worth, he’ll have to eat crow, swallow his pride and admit defeat, that he was wrong judging you the way he is doing now – he will have no choice but acknowledge your talents, your power, admire you as you admire him (with all the force that thrives on you).

The radio creaks, a bleak noise, and between the static, a voice asks for reinforces.

“A shooting,” it says, and you know they are talking about you, “the suspect has called the 112, telling he has just fired a girl,” and then, more crackling and snow polluting the rest of the sentence, clouding the voice, opaquing the meaning of what it is saying. Your heart pounds, exhilarated, gobbling you from the inside. Jinwoo listens to it carefully, brows knitted in confusion.

An officer grabs his hands, lead him out and you follow suits, escape as easily as you have sneaked in, without hindrance.

You drive faster than them, knowing where to go, parking a few blocks away, blending in within the crowd surrounding the place already, watching tentatively the crime scene – words have been outspread, the press is already taking pictures; by tomorrow everybody will be aware of it, you’ll be on everyone’s lips (but there is only a pair of lips you want to be in, but this will have to wait, pushing the thought away again).

* * *

There is a police cordon around, controlling the flux of people, neon yellow painting the sides of a blank road, guarding the scene, patrolling, it’s bright hues contrasting with the dark paint of the car, with the void coming from the hole in the glass. You don’t need to wonder what has occurred, knowing pretty well what has happened, how the girl ended, how little resistance she put against you, nothing like the fight performed by Jennie or the pale, contorted face of Rose while chocking on her own spite, jolting for air. No, she has just fallen, a bullet crossing her temples (a bullet lost, that has shattered the window, a silver line in the sky). Amber and Suzy were easy targets, too, they let you in taking you for somebody else, someone innocuous – and they must be regretting it from hell. They passed away breezily, smooth and agreeably – it was so easy you were frustrated by the lack of resistance, the lack of hard work. But Lisa has been the one to go the faster, with the impact of metal and gunpowder, her eyes reflected on the wing-mirror, horror, fear, shock and then, silence, nothingness.

Seunghoon texts Sungjin to drive Jinwoo to the location where another corpse has been found. He is already there when Jinwoo arrives, running to catch up with the DC and his staff. A gunshot inside a car, probably a lovers fight. Terrible, but nothing out of ordinary. He takes pictures and looks around for the missing projectile that has perforated the girl and the window-screen.

“This has nothing to do with our copycat,” Seunghoon comments, looking for evidence with keen eyes. “It’s a .44,” he states, looking at the wound, at the small hole, the driving force of a bullet smashing skin and bones into a mass of pulp and blood.

Jinwoo appears by his side, observing the scene, too, with a grimy smile.

“Don’t be so sure,” he says, “this is another imitation, .44mm, you say? Are you certain?” But Seunghoon doesn’t need to measure it with a strip, he is well versed in guns.

“Absolutely. But the CSI will corroborate it later on,” he states and, turning to Younghyun, “make them leave, this is chaos,” and dismisses the officer with a waving hand, hoping to have the surrounding area empty of curious and reporters. All eyes are on them, staring into them and it’s disturbing, annoying. Not to mention how this can corrupt the scene, so Seunghoon smiles, amidst wearily, when the multitude dissolves, leaving them to their task.

“Does the name David Berkowitz ring any bell?” Jinwoo wonders, his eyes looking inside the vehicle. The blood is still fresh, viscous, slowly slipping down the sides of her face, smudging red over pale skin: she was pretty, with charcoal, straight hair – just as Berkowitz liked, Jinwoo notices; he has mimic it to the smallest detail. Seunghoon shrugs. “He was known as the ".44 Calibre Killer", or “Son of Sam”,” Jinwoo announces, “look for a letter, he used to send threatening letters to the police,” he adds, looking inside the car, “he shot people in cars all over New York, claimed to be under the influence of the devil but, later on, he admitted that it was a hoax, that he knew what he was doing. Of course he did,” he continues, rolling his eyes, “I talked about him in many of my conferences. I think the culprit might be one of the attendees,” he mumbles, straight into Seunghoon, avoiding to be listened by others – intending to keep it between themselves.

“Well,” Seunghoon says, noting it down, “are you convinced about it? He is imitating famous serial killers, very publicly so it might be just a mere coincidence,” he bites his pen, thinking.

“No, there is something…” but he is interrupted by PC Seungyoon, carrying a note to show them.

“The forensic found this inserted on her throat,” and hurriedly leaves again, to keep searching and documenting the scene.

“As I thought,” Jinwoo says, taking the plastic bag containing it. He skims over the text, seeking similarities, looking for a tread, something. “It is all nonsense,” he sighs, after a second read. Seunghoon takes it into custody.

“He is threatening us,” he says, rubbing his temples, “this is a mad chase. He is ten steps ahead of us,” and he looks so defeated, so beaten up, Jinwoo pats his back to reassure him, to cheer him up. The note is nothing but random scribbles made in a hurry, ink scattered all over the paper – some bits diluted already. But, overall, the message is quite understandable: the police will never be able to stop him. Seunghoon rubs his temples, trying to boost his stamina – but has none left, has been staying up until late trying to solve this to no avail with nothing in return but dead ends.

“Her name was Lisa Manoban,” PC Younghyun supplies, her ID on his hand. “She was nearly 23, such a shame,” and Jinwoo nods, agrees with him – young, pretty, inside her car, how he has done it to get in without being suspicious? Lisa must have let him in, the shooting has been taken at close distance, from the co-pilot side, he observes. “And she was listening to a CD, it seems,” he raises a brow, peeking at the reproducer with curiosity, turning it on.

The song sounds odd, unknown, Younghyun listens to it, writing down the lyrics.

“It has been left by the offender,” he states, sure, showing it to Seunghoon. “There is only this song and, examining the girl’s taste, it doesn’t fit, so I can venture to say that the killer wants us to listen to it, there must be a clue.” And Seunghoon agrees. Inside the drawer there is a compilation of CDs that portray Lisa’s taste accurately: all-girl groups, no soloist, no boys, no spitting fire raps at the speed of eight beats a second, Seunghoon’s heart pounds at the same pace as the music blasts and he tries to grasp the meaning of it, to discern if there is more veiled endangerment – if there is something familiar, recognisable.

The room is saturated with the pictures of all the victims of the copycat, links and resemblances, all that the detectives have to work on depicted on a blackboard, filled to the rims with handwriting. Jinwoo leans to it, reads the evidence, the proves: it’s not the police fault that he is still free, it’s all credits to this murderer’s abilities, who moves through the scenes like a phantom, unseen, uncaught, unreal.

Jinwoo, too, has done his job. After noticing that the killer was a possible student of him, he has printed a list of his classes assistance, conferences and lectures he has imparted in Seoul. It’s not completed, though, but it is something and Jinwoo hands it to Seunghoon, who looks at it with knitted brows, confused.

“There was something bugging me since I saw the laces he left on the victims,” Jinwoo explains, “it has to do with something I mentioned in one of my symposia so I thought he might be an attendee,” he says to Seunghoon, who turns pages on a list of hundreds of names. But it’s a beginning, something they can work with – check antecedents, health records, verify alibis. “I think he was in my seminaries because of something I said,” Jinwoo explains, “something about leaving a trace behind, to identify yourself, your work. I suggested, as a joke, a lace, like a gift to the police. I didn’t realise that it could...” and his voice becomes thinner, smaller, breaks down in puffs of incoherences and mumbles.

“Jinwoo, it’s OK, it’s not your fault,” Seunghoon assures him, a hand on the small of his back, drawing circles. “It’s not your fault, never. This person is mental and it’s only using you,” he reassures Jinwoo. “We will find him, we will put the handcuffs on him, together,” and a little trail of smooth kisses linger in the air between his lips and Jinwoo’s forehead.

* * *

But it is his flaw, and you know it. Because you wanted it this way – you want to put all the blame on him, to pin the finger on Jinwoo, accuse him from all your doings, for all your wrongs.

It shatters your heart to see him freaking out, crying on someone’s arms – arms that aren’t yours, words that aren’t whispered by you, an assurance that comes from another’s lips, another heart, another person invading your space, intruding into the whole that is you and Jinwoo.

You should wait a week between assaults, but you are restless, Jinwoo is flooding your mind, and you can’t think – you need to take action, do something or to go insane: reminiscing how he was held by that DC, how his words calmed him, how he fitted there, between his arms, amid his chest, snuggling cosily. Disgusting, disturbing, you need to clear your mind, get this frustration, this loath, out of your system. And make that fucking DC pay for what he has done, for the migraine he is giving you – and you gobble a whole pack of aspirins alongside your prescript anxiolytics. You need them to temper your rage, the outburst of wrath and hate that hamper your sleep. Killing does the trick, too, so you think that maybe you can break your own rule; it’s been a long, tiring day and Jinwoo has spite out too much blabber about you, which doesn’t help to prevent what you are about to do.

You get your derringer, fill it with bullets and speed up in your car, searching for a new target – for someone to kill in order to kill the voice in your head.

Shooting another car is easy and, the thrill, lingering still, tastes like fine wine and drugs: it makes you feel good. So you change locations and fire again – to show them that you can, that you are the terror of Seoul, the new “Son of Sam”, “.44 Calibre“, and you like the resemblance, the sound of them calling you that, how beautiful and simple it is to use a pistol – how the corpses fall against the gravity, limp, clean. By the end of the night, the sun colours the sky with the blood you have spilt – and their names and faces are a blur in your mind, a mass of broken eyes and parted smiles and red splashed all over your overall. It releases your mind from the terrors of missing Jinwoo, of making him cry again, feeling vulnerable, exposed: your involuntary accomplice – as he had discovered the previous night. Still high and dope, you drive back to him, the place you pertain, to check on him, to see him – to fill your heart with images of Jinwoo waking up to the news of your actions.

* * *

“He is losing control,” DC Seunghoon confirms, looking at the four murderers. “He has abandoned himself, no restrain, wild like an animal,” and he extracts the last bullet from the last victim of the killing spree. All .44 calibre, all committed by the same psychopath – and, sum up, nine people have perished by his hand.

“The last victims, a couple, Kim Hyunah and Kim Hyojong. Time of death, according to the forensic, around 2 am. The shooter shot first at him. The girl tried to escape, but he killed her before she could. That’s why the positions are different from the other two homicides,” PC Seungyoon tells, reading the informs from the medics.

“Who were the other two victims?” Seunghoon asks, sipping from a cold cup of coffee.

“The first one died at 10 pm, according to the temperature of his liver. Was found at the Mc-Auto by the clerks there. He ordered a burger and was killed while waiting for it. His name was Eun Jiwon, age 42,” Seunghoon nods, “it was a .44 bullet that shattered both windows, landing on the road. We were able to recuperate it, the CSI is investigating its precedence. The second victim was Kim Jiwon, same name, different age, murdered between 12 am and 2 am. The corpse was found by the neighbours, who heard a crash. There were tire tracks on the road. He chased him, shoot at him while racing. There are two sets of tires; again the CSI is processing it. We might get the model of the car he used,” Seungyoon explains. “He has killed four people in the span of just a few hours,” he resumes, his eyes red-rimmed.

“Good news, at least,” Seunghoon heaves. “We have the declarations of most of Jinwoo’s students, so if there is a match… That would lead us to someone,” he expresses, absolutely exhausted. “And the tyre marks can provide us with the model of his car, it was his and not robbed, of course,” he continues. “And maybe the McDonald’s CCTV cameras have captured footage. Even a flimsy pixel could be of help,” he sighs, hopes high, looking at the pictures that PC. Kang Seungyoon is offering him: a couple crumbled down together, his head falling on her lap due to the impact of the gunfire, a crashed car, with rest of paint that the CSI will analyse, a burger fallen on the floor, near the victim’s vehicle. There is work to do and he has no time to waste, not now that he has been shooting like a madman, without a `backup`plan. “This is our best chance,” he mutters, reading the documents.

“Haven’t you sleep, DC Seunghoon?” PC Younghyun asks, worriedly, looking at him warily. His shirt is all wriggled, patched with coffee and ink and his auburn hair is total disarray – and his plaque is nowhere to be found.

“How could? I was working on the case. We need to hurry before this bloody bastard murders again,” he explains, in between huffs and yawns. He has been reading the autopsies, the results of tests and analysis and Jinwoo’s hypothesis as well. He has put an all night again, staying awake, working with DC Park Kyung, from homicides, who has joined forces to stop this bothersome criminal that slides away from his reach. They had been rewinding CCTVs’ videos, analysing blurry faces, shadows, cars, anything capable to throw light into it, to put them closer to colour him, to tag him under a real name – something more than the epithets the press use. It is like playing tag, this is becoming exasperating, exhausting, Seunghoon’s mind spins in a vortex of pools of blood, spiralling downward. It’s not only the reputation of the police department that it is at stake, but the safety of the whole city that is compromised by a lunatic toying with them.

* * *

You get rid of the pistol; too used to keep, too problematic – it can cut a swath, so you depose it, throw it to the bin in a whim, rushing to Jinwoo, to visit him on his sleep.

Minho, you feel high after killing all of them and now you are elated, watching Jinwoo from afar, through his open window, observing him on the shower, singing to himself, with his sweet, smooth voice, the one that cradles you to dormancy, your personal lullaby – and you wander around his apartment, staring at the patches of him, the glimpses he gifts you with. He is wonderful, a glory bathed with the first strokes of the sun – burning fire and orange and baby blue igniting his skin, veiling the brown of his eyes in golden slumber.

You want to loiter around a little longer, but he is opening the door, so you flee, scattering your presence to the minimum, not wishing to be seen, noticed – this is not part of your plan, this is only you giving in to your cravings. He passes you without blinking, without realising that you are the man he is looking for, the owner of his nightmares, the name he wants to know, uncover.

You have spent the night away, contemplating him with blood still sliding, dripping from your fingers. Does it matter? They will never find this place, hidden, secret, perfect to stalk the love of your life, the one for whom you do it all.

He hasn’t paid you attention, even when your song was blasting through your earphones, he hasn’t spear a glance on you – not when your eyes are fixed on him, following him around like a second skin, you are always sucking from, taking away any crumb he is willing to give you, allowing you a second to admire his perfection, the grace he exudes and that you are dying to be soaked with. He’ll see you soon, under another light, with admiration, with devotion, with love and adoration. Yes, he will, you won’t give him other options, he won’t be able to choose – he will always have to pick you.

He has walked past you with abstracted face, contorted and focused, creases all over his forehead. Tired and red-rimmed, he still looked ethereal, like something you would worship earnestly, someone from whom you will wire your life with, do as he says. And if he looks so puffy and restless is because of you, because you have pushed him into the game – into the game you are going to win.

Maybe it’s time to upgrade your little game, though, to show them what you are capable off, to show Jinwoo how far you are inclined to go – to make him proud. You check the list and chose the next name, smiling at it. Seoul better prepares for what’s coming next – and you can’t hide your excitement, imagining Jinwoo’s face staring at your work, at what you are going to put up together for him to enjoy.

* * *

“According to the skid-marks, the car model used to chase Kim Jiwon was the same used by “Son of Sam”. We are on a deadlock again,” exhales PC Seungyoon, a hand over PC Younghyun, who has stayed up with him, looking through tyre tracks and cars’ references, cross-checking with the list of names that Jinwoo has offered them. Nothing came up as a coincidence and now, this. These new results are dampening the police's moral once again: the culprit, as usual, is still a step ahead – miles away from them.

Seunghoon nods, listening to the report. Everything leads to empty spots, all the traces and the hints are useless with him, he is playing with the police and he is sick of it. He wants to give up but if he wants to play, he will dance at the sound of his music – he has no choice but to keep on moving.

“Even the same colour,” he says, glancing at the sample extracted from the crash, “the bastard has it all prepared despite that, this time, it wasn’t so meticulously planned. Probably it was improvised, after the success with Lisa,” he continues, checking the list provided by the forensics. As expected, no DNA, no prints, nothing traceable. “What about the analysis of the song? The message he left inside that poor girl’s throat?” He asks his peer. Seungyoon turns a few pages, reads it to Seunghoon, who encourages him with a wired smile.

“It is quite triggering, isn’t it?” a voice comes through the door, followed by the smell of coffee. Jinwoo hands him a cup, steals his seat, snatches Seungyoon’s papers and reads them cross-legged, bloated face but with a cheerful grin – a breeze of fresh air to the stuffy ambience of the police department. “I’ve been listening to the song, too. Bloody and catchy; this man has proven to be scrupulous and neat, no tread to go after. The style is the same, concurring with the letter found crammed inside of Lisa’s throat; I’ve even asked Professor Woo Jiho, from the Literature Department at Seoul National University, and he confirms it. He also made a dissection of the metaphors and, well, it’s plagued with references of hell, demons and other mythological innuendos. Very close to .44 Calibre letters to the police,” he explains and it makes sense that he has it all staged, ready for them under the shape of another criminal’s way. Jinwoo takes a look at the stash of pictures taken earlier this morning, the four new cases piling up the total among of casualties by the “imitator”, as the press has baptised him. “This wasn’t planned, he hasn’t been as meticulous as usual,” he notes, and this only supports Seunghoon’s theory. “Something had happened to trigger his anger this way,” he says, observing the different scenes with acute eyes. “Shoot and run,” he heaves, returning it all to Seungyoon, who looks bewildered - this case is triggering and excruciating and deviant.

“So, let’s review what we have so far. Jinwoo is joining us,” states Seunghoon, sipping from his beverage.

“We have nothing, Detective,” mumbles Sungjin, defeated. He, too, joins in and, with him, there are four other polices working alongside Seunghoon.

“Well, we will look upon the nothingness that we have, then,” he jokes, vacuumed, shaking his head disappointedly. This copycat killer is taking a toll on all of them – they are not getting closer to shackle him, not even with the help of Kim Jinwoo and DC. Park Kyung, who has shared his insights with him the night before. “He is an imitator, terrorizing the city and toying us. He is a bloody bastard and we will do our very best to catch him. That, I can guarantee,” he promises between gritted teeth. “We have the car’s model used for, as Jinwoo called, the shoot and run. A Ford Galaxie, yellow. The gun was a .44 calibre Bulldog revolver, according to ballistic. Again, the same pattern as David Berkowitz. And, before that, the strangling cases. Identical to Albert DeSalvo’s save the fact that he doesn’t rape, probably because nowadays forensic can run tests easily,” he resumes.

“Or maybe he has some reticence,” suggests PC Younghyun, and Jinwoo agrees.

“No remorse for killing but refutes intercourse,” Jinwoo mouths, thinking aloud “maybe he is homosexual and, so far, all men he killed weren’t supposed to be also abused,” he offers and Seunghoon takes quick notes. “Son of Sam” wasn’t a rapist, DeSalvo was, he only killed women for that matter,” he points out, facts that they already are acquittance with, “so he is probably into men. And has a weird fetish with me,“ he adds, remembering the lipstick blotched all over his photographs.

“So we are after a detailed, diligent, well prepared, gay, and also a Jinwoo’s student and a stalker with no criminal records. Someone comes to mind?” he sums up, glancing at his peers. Jinwoo shrugs and sighs; so far he has not the faintest idea of who this serial killer is, this meticulous murderer who has been shadowing him, entering his home uninvited, tantalising him to this imitation game, this persecution, a chase that doesn’t seem to have an end.

“He probably has a low profile during the day. Oh, he has been at my place before,” Jinwoo reminds them, glancing at Seunghoon. “Maybe I’m the key somehow,” he suggests, unsure, “he is more than just a participant of my lectures” he unwraps, clenching his fits, “and now that I think about that, the lyrics of the song… Professor Jiho noted that the lyrics used, though well worded, pointed at some sort of obsessive behaviour,” and he rummages through his belongings, until grasping a particular note, ”and I quote Professor Woo here, “an obsession that forces him to do anything to be noticed, to be seen,” end of the citation,” he summarizes, reading once more the mail that Woo Jiho has delivered this morning regarding the issue of the lyrics’ meaning.

“So he is paranoid over Jinwoo,” Seunghoon says, “enamoured or whatever, he is doing it for you,” and he glances straight at Jinwoo, flushed cheeks and watery eyes.

“Jinwoo is quite handsome and a very fine person,” Sungjin offers, and he has the whole division nodding at his assertion, adding more shades to Jinwoo’s colour. “But, if he is really obsessed with Jinwoo, shouldn’t we send some officers to guard his house and protect him?” he wonders. Seunghoon scribbles something and turns to look at him.

“If he hasn’t detected them, it’s because they are doing a good job,” he explains with a mischievous smirk. Jinwoo is taken by surprise because, as Seunghoon has just said, he hasn’t seen any police around his place – which is, indeed, a good sign; if he hasn’t noticed, probably his stalker and presumable murdered hasn’t as well.

He is not scared of him, he has dealt with psychopaths before, he knows their minds, their thought, has studied them deep down, to the core, but they need to work together to catch him, to prevent more killings, to protect the citizens of Seoul. Because he has studied them but never, ever, has been active during the chase – and he is afraid of messing up, of providing the police with false leads or proves, of being a hindrance for them (of being the cause of all of Seunghoon’s troubles).

Jinwoo is reviewing the cases when an idea pops into his head. It sounds like something he mentioned, something he has talked about – maybe a side note for a conference, maybe a remark made during a lecture. He frowns, thinks, tries to remember because the thought is disturbing him, persistently knocking his skull – and he needs to know, needs to find out.

“Aha!” Jinwoo exclaims, exulted. He gets up from his chair, walks to the blackboard. The answer is in the order of the criminals chosen to simulate, in there relays the clue he has been looking for. It is, indeed, based on his classes: it has everything to do with the order he follows when he names criminals: Albert DeSalvo, David Berkowitz, Jeffrey Dahmer, Ted Bundy. So far, this is the sequence he has used for his crimes. “I’m sure next target to imitate will be the Milwaukee Cannibal,” he tells, convinced. “He lured gay men to his apartment and then drugged them with sleeping pills. He raped them, strangled them most often and then, ripped the bodies and bleached the bones to preserve them as memorabilia. I’m not sure our criminal will go to this extent, but I suggest to send police to the popular, most concurred gay bars. Dahmer found his victims there,” he recalls, resuming what he knows. “If he is done pretending to be David Berkowitz.”

“Are you sure?” Seunghoon inquiries, the phone on his hand, ready to make a call. Jinwoo nods.

“Yes. He is using the same order I did while talking about famous serial killers. DeSalvo, Berkowitz, Dahmer, Bundy, Peter Kürten, Bobby Joe Long,” he tallies, “crimes will get worse,” Jinwoo states, sighing heavily, remembering the methods used by these other offenders. It only takes ten minutes to reinforce the presence of police officers all around Itaewon, the most notorious and infamous area of gays bars and pubs. Seunghoon, too, and all of his equip, are sent to patrol the zone, leaving Jinwoo all alone.

* * *

He is a sucker, you feel it in your guts, so you follow him because he will make a perfect victim. You are done copying “Son of Sam”, you have overused it so the rash of adrenaline is getting thin and low and you have something in mind, something this young man will be great for: petite and small, the ideal size. You smile at him, the sun brushing his skin with golden leaves and auburn strokes splashing his honey hair. He is pretty when he smiles back at you, an expectant layer shading the stars lingering in his eyes and, from a distance, he resembles Jinwoo – but nothing can compare to him, he is only a new toy you will play with.

It is fortunate that you have your sleeping pills with you, the ones you take for your insomnia, so it will be easy to smuggle them into a drink, inviting this pretty boy and have him knocked down amidst a minute. You know better not to leave traces, you are not this stupid, despite that he is tempting, with soft curves and cherry glossed lips, inviting. But you shake your head, clean your mind of lavishing thoughts – you need to stay focused, you have work to do – besides you should keep all this energy to Jinwoo, for the day you will devote to him entirely, completely, the moment when he will be yours.

You know they are searching for you, that the police is scattered all over Itaewon, but you are already there, too late for them to catch you now, even if Jinwoo has decoded your plot, this man is cornered, sentenced – nothing can help him out.

He is so easily misguided, you want to laugh at him. He takes the invitation, leaving a friend behind – a friend that you make sure can’t see you, and even if he can, he won’t be able to recognise you by tomorrow. He follows to your apartment, the one you rented long ago for this reason– it’s not far away, so he can’t change his mind, and he holds your hand, giggling, anticipating a good night.

It takes a few minutes to have him under your spell, sleeping soundly. He won’t feel the pain, he won’t be in agony, you are not that cruel. You crush his long, appealing neck, leave a few butterfly kisses along his Adam Apple – it bounces in response, calling for you, and your fingers are drawn to him, so you allow them to sink into his body. Pretty, sweet, so innocent it feels wrong to corrupt him this way – but he is not refusing you, has come willingly, so you sin upon his skin, feeling it warm, palpitating still, your hands around his throat, pressing, breaking, crushing his bones until breathing dead.

It doesn’t really matter what you do with him, in the end, the police won’t find any evidence on him – it won’t be a corpse to discover but a letter explaining what you have done, what has happened to his cadaver.

The electric sound of the saw gets you all riled up but it is fascinating how it is tearing up the skin, the membranes holding all the bits together, the junctions of the bones. You hack off his members, chop off his delicate fingers, his feet, slice his legs, reducing them to the knee, and shorten up, the saw butchering, swearing-in blood that runs down your chin. You take a picture of it before covering the pieces of the skeleton in acid to remove flesh and guts and they float in your bath like particles of an anatomic class. You might keep some parts of him after dismembering his body, as a token of good luck – something to remember the beauty that Kim Jinhwan was.

His skull feels silky, milky, gleaming under the moonlight; it feels quite romantic, reminds you of poetry, of Jinwoo. You contemplate it as if a piece of art – as your masterpiece. The room is messy now, with remains of Jinhwan, his blood spread everywhere, but your hands feel heavy, and you need to depose of his offcuts before it becomes to reek. It looks repulsive but the outcome is a wonder, pearl perfect, the shape of his head on the palm of your hand. There will be nothing by noon, all the debris turned to dust, already dissolving in a pool of hydrochloric acid that will sink down the pipes, lost in the ocean. You will crush the bones subsequently and collect the rests in a jar to preserve the essence of who he was – and maybe you can gift it to Jinwoo: if he ever finds you; if he solves the puzzle you are giving him.

* * *

The sound of his phone wakes him up. He rubs his tired eyes and reaches out for the device. Outside, the sky is painted in purple and scarlet, the sun slowly rising to shine amidst dawn: the day has just begun and he feels in his stomach first, before reading the message from an unknown sender. Something has happened involving him – and involving Jinwoo.

_– It would be a pity to bury up my hard work. Also, it is too cold and the ground is all icy to dig a hole for this corpse. Can you recognise it?_

Attached, a mutilated trunk, kerfed from all four limbs, blood springing from the lacerations made by a saw, arms slitted and amputated, bones poking through the ripped, open flesh, covered in red spots of splashed, fresh blood. Jinwoo throws up on the floor, pale and sweaty, the image shinning on the screen: obscene, macabre, grotesque, the clothes in a neat pile next to the body, his eyes open – and Jinwoo blinks, tries to erase the photo from his memory but it is already embedded inside his lids, drops falling, sliding down his cheeks, shaking, agitated, combulsing over his phone, over the image of a head diving into a pool of scarlet liquid. 

_– Wasn’t he pretty? Though I like you more. I’m refraining myself, saving up all my love for you. If you want to find him, come to me first._

This can’t be happening, this situation can’t be real. He can’t breathe, he gasps for air, swallowing bile and his tongue tastes sour and char. How this mental has acquired his phone number?

 _– Of course, you are my speed dial number;_ and Jinwoo can see a creeping smile on an anonymous face, lurking through the glass, from afar, observing, contemplating, trapping him inside his own cage of a house. _– You can call your friendly DC if you want, but I know you. Come find me, or someone else will die._

And this is an open thread Jinwoo takes by heart.

* * *

His disgusted face is a mascara, hiding his true emotions, but you can see through the pretence, the façade, straight to his mind, you are so familiar with his feeling – you have registered them all, saving them inside your mind. He will come, he won’t escape, not when you made it this clear: when you have openly invited him; he won’t run away – and, if he does, there is another life on the line to blame him for. It’s not a big deal for you to wait or to kill, in the end, Jinwoo will be yours (today, tomorrow, time is relative after all that you have done). You are sure that he is thrilled, exhilarated by your offering, an opportunity to live what he has studied for – to meet a real serial killer, the one that he has created. You have mimicked everything he has said, followed his instructions to the smallest detail, you have killed in order to please him, coming with you is the less he can do.

* * *

Seunghoon looks at the report for the fourth time this morning. He has been staring at it for quite a long time, breathing in intermittently. The car has been found, the marks from the crash coinciding, the same colour, the same brand, abandoned on a parking lot. No clues inside, completely vacuum, spotlessly clean. CSI hasn’t been able to get a single fingerprint and, far worse, as expected, it was stolen – the old owner has interposed a complaint.

There is nothing, again, and they are walking on thin ice, a wrong step can have them drowning. And the reporters haven’t stopped showing up, wandering around, demanding an explanation, a press release. But Seunghoon doesn’t have the time to deal with them: he has a murderer to catch and giving him more attention will be useless – because that’s what he is looking for and he won’t give him anything, not until he is between bars, arrested, trapped.

Jinwoo tries to catch his breath but he feels nauseated, the images of that body a bloody nightmare. But he obligates himself to watch, to study the scene, to search for clues, for something remarkable, something that can lead them to him.

The picture attached shows the butchered corpse thrown on a wooden floor, soaked in red. There is a shelf with books and he zooms-in, analysing the titles – most of them published by him, which exalts the idea that he has a fixation on him. One of the books, though, looks familiar. He observes it, search among his own collection. Indeed, he has it, too. They are set up the same way he has them. Even the ground is alike, the wallpapers white and creamy, the same distribution of furniture. Sickening the depth of his obsession, to the extent to replicate Jinwoo’s home. The setting is so similar, it is scaring. Even the view from the French doors that lead to the balcony resembles the one he has – and he blinks, flicking, everything falling into place, finally. There is only one place to get this exact panoramic of the Han river with the cherry blossom flowering.

“He lives in the building next to mine!” he exclaims over the phone, Seunghoon is already rushing to his place. “No wonders he could stalk me without being noticed, he is a neighbour!” he pours, shacking, sweat pearling his forehead, trembling with a fear cooling down his spine, drowning his sense, clouding his mind.

“How did you know?” he asks, and Jinwoo hears the harsh breathing, how he is running, the siren from the police car while he drives to him, the phone held by his shoulders, his peers listening to the conversation. “And don’t move, we are on our way. We also have news to tell you!” he says, excitedly. “We are going to nick this psychopath,” he assures Jinwoo, who smiles despite the threats, despite the mist that is fogging his thoughts, the terror of being observed, scrutinized, a mind behind the curtains plotting to get him, to kill him – his last victim, his great obsession.

* * *

You hear the warning bell and you smirk. Clever Jinwoo, he has figured it up, finally has found out your hideout. Now it is just a matter of time for the police to show up, to set your home as a crime scene. They will search, analyse, they will bring their devices but they will leave empty-handed – you never leave a trail behind. And when they finally arrive here, you will be long gone. You have your things packed, one last picture of Jinwoo to remember him inside the pocket of your jeans. If you depart now, you won’t be stopped by the cops. If you leave now, only Jinwoo will know – you can see him glancing at you from the distance, his eyes exploring the vicinity, looking for a face he won’t be able to recognise – he has never paid attention to you and now he will pay for it, for ignoring you when he was your world.

He is so pretty, standing there, beneath shadows, gloomy and terrible: he is still beautiful with tears running down his cheeks. And you are going to miss watching him, observing him from your tower of ivory, the place you has consecrated to him, devoted to him only, with pictures and recording and drawings and all the words he ever spoke.

The next step is already planned, you have it prepared ahead – you thought it would take less time but, alas, the police have been nothing but a fraud, useless to track you down. Until now and, yet, you are miles ahead, ready to depart, leaving them startled – leaving Jinwoo behind. But you will reunite with him soon, you just need to wait a little more – a day, at most, your last act that will be performed for his eyes only (for him alone to see).

You miss your old place but there is nothing to do, you need to escape and keep him safe – you mainline him back to an induced coma and tug him under the covers. The IV line he is connected contains enough drip to keep his health, though he won’t last much – he will be your support on your ending performance.

“Good boy, Jihoon,” you mumble, ruffling his hair affectionately. He has been with you for a month, you have abducted him and nobody has ever looked for him – nobody has suspected he had been kidnapped, you staged it perfectly, buying a new house under his name, pretending him to move out of town. Simple and magnificent, you have grown to care about him, have spent many hours next to him – and it’s just fair to call him by his name, he is your best friend after all.

* * *

“Someone came to report the disappearance of his friend. Seen yesterday, in a club in Itaewon. He left with a man, he couldn’t provide with an accurate description but the victim’s name is Kim Jinhwan, age 26, from Jeju Island. The friend, Song Yunhyeon, thought that he would be back later on, but he never returned, even though he left his stuff at Yunheyon's place to collect the next day after partying. He tried to call him to no avail and this morning, suspecting that something was wrong, came to report it,” Seunghoon resumes, looking at his notes. From the window in front of him, he can see the crime scene, the house hosted by the copycat: the CSI is already running tests, searching from any evidence, a single drop of DNA. But, so far, the only thing found is a creepy room filled with Kim Jinwoo – and that he has perfectly reproduced Jinwoo’s flat. “How did you find out about his hideout?” he wonders, turning to face his friend. He looks as exhausted as Seunghoon does, salty cheeks and tumid eyes, all the light in them gone.

He shows him the message received.

“I doubt technicians can get his number or locate him,” he sighs.

“No, but we will try anyway,” Seunghoon says, a hand on his back, patting him in a reassuring fashion. It has been a hell of a day but, finally, they are getting closer to sort this case out, to decipher his name, put a face on him. 

“Is there any hint on the flat?” Jinwoo inquiries, his orbs focused on the officers working, coming and going, little ants trying to find something he knows is non-existent – he knows because this copy-cat has it all premeditated, prepared beforehand; it must have taken years to master it, to come up with this perfect execution, to avoid the police and never leave a tip: he is not only meticulous but strong-willed, determinate, obsessive. How many nights has he spent staring at Jinwoo? How many times has he broken into his own house? It is sickening to think how exposed he has been, how another pair of eyes have seen him, trailed him, examined and undressed his body, touched him in the air, tracing his figure, relishing into its exquisite form, wanton flooding his mind while hands were fondling his own skin. Jinwoo shivers, he crouches on the floor, arms tugged around his chest. Seunghoon bends down next to him, a hand on his shoulder, pulling Jinwoo in, embracing him into half a hug.

“We will catch this bloody son of a bitch, I promise,” his voice is low and solemn and Jinwoo nods, snuggles closer to Seunghoon, sniffling gently and Seunghoon’s fingers come to wipe away the tears that are rimming his eyes. “And, no. But Yunhyeon confirms that the corpse belongs to Kim Jinhwan. The poor boy is at the hospital, in shock,” he says, rubbing his back affectionately. “You should go to the doctor, too. These pictures are frightening and disgusting,” he admits but Jinwoo shakes his head.

“Not until he gets arrested. We have no time to lose; he could be murdering his next victim at the moment,” he stutters, his face beneath his fingers, voice muffled with sleeves rubbing his eyelids.

Maiming takes too much of an effort, you confirm that after Jinhwan. Even decompose his flesh and bones have taken hours and there is nothing to throw at the police; it’s not fun – though Jinwoo has seen the process, he is aware of your crafting, of your feelings. You’ve made them clear and it’s only a matter of Jinwoo to come to visit. He knows where you will be waiting – and if he doesn’t, well, someone else is going to perish; he needs to hurry, he needs to come to you. And the moment you’ll finally see him, you’ll be so elated, over the clouds, you just need him by your side and everything will be perfect, all right, the world spinning again at the right direction – he is your axis, you revolt around him, your sun and stars and constellations, the warmth that you lack and that can only come from Jinwoo.

You don’t want to mince her, not when she is so young and pretty, it would be a waste to have her chopped in little pieces. Besides, you have another serial killer in mind, something easier. You smile at her and wave your hand, showing off the cast you have around your wrist. She rushes to you, always helpful, takes your shopping bags and drops them inside your Volkswagen Beetle. She is so innocent she doesn’t catch the wimp of silver crossing the air, smacking her. She falls, unconscious, at the back of your car and, with no witnesses, you only have to push her further in, take her home with you.

“The place was registered under Kim Daedoo,” reports PC Seungyoon. He has done the round around the house, photographing everything, examining the floor in search of blood – it was like a marshland, they had sprayed luminol and now, under the UV light, haemoglobin patches are shown everywhere, falling like a storm. “It was all bathed with blood,” he continues, “it seems that the murdering took place there and that, indeed, he hewed the body, as displayed on the pictures,” he heaves. In all his career, he has never seen something as grotesque as this. It is so bizarre that send shivers all over his body, shaking at the notion of what had happened inside the flat just a few hours ago - the rivers and pools of blood flooding the floor, the bones bleaching on the bathtub; it is repulsive, it makes him churns, sick.

“The fucker, this is not just an alias,” Seunghoon mutters, rolling his eyes, exasperated, “it’s the name of South Korea’s first serial killer,” he explains.

“Luckily,” Seungyoon says, grinning, “the landlord has a picture of the tenant,” he is triumphant amidst all he has witnessed, showing Seunghoon the file. Jinwoo comes to take a look, frowns at the person traced, his face looking oddly familiar.

“He was one of my students,” he exclaims, “I can get his name-checking the list of all the enrollee. We have their pictures from the students' ID,” and he is already on his computer, going through the SNU website, scrolling down, looking for a match. “Bingo!” he cheers, ten minutes later. Seunghoon stares at the screen, smirking.

“We have you, Song Minho”.

* * *

You suffocate her with her own panties, but first, you bludgeon her lithe body; it’s not something you enjoy but you are a perfectionist and this was his method – at least you make sure that she is still senseless before thrashing her. She doesn’t spam or convulse, she just lays on the ground, lifeless, a ragged doll. And, then, you smother her, ending your remorse. As Ted Bundy did many years before, you rejoice to doll her corpse, playing with her long, dark hair. You braid it, put flowers, caress her cold skin, covering the bruises with make-up until she seems to be peacefully asleep.

Poor Jisoo, to have ended like this, you think, your fingers tracing her chin, scribbling on her with soft grazes dripping like beads of dew early in the morning. You drop her on the mountain, waiting for a hiker to find her soon – before she loses her colour before wild animals will devour her like you would devour Jinwoo.

* * *

“Ted Bundy,” Jinwoo blurts out, “that’s the next on the list,” he adds, “and he probably has acquired another hideout under a pseudonym. We are aware of his fixation with murderers, so it might be another Korean serial killer,” he offers. All of Seunghoon’s team is looking through the registration of proprieties, trying to find a name, his new place.

“You’ve heard him,” Seunghoon says, sternly, eyes glued to the screen, skimming down a list of suspicious names. Song Minho has no police records, not even a fine – until his first assault, he has been a model citizen. Now he is charged with robbery, stalking, 10 homicides and counting. But they have printed his photo, he is on the list of most wanted delinquents, he has four teams casting a wide net, scouring, home to home, clearing the list of possible suspects – until finding the scoundrel, this bloody jerk that has been playing with them. Seunghoon has the upper hand now and he is not going to squander it – not after all the pain he inflicted to Jinwoo by making him believe that he has something to do with his crimes (that he was the cause), and the victims of his vile assassinations.

Sungjin is doing the rounds with the information that Jinwoo has provided. He is sure they need to seek for a specific car model – a brownish, creamy Volkswagen Beetle, and for a man pretending to be on casts. The original criminal used to kidnap young girls from around campus, Jinwoo has said, and that’s the reason why he is patrolling about SNU. He has a feeling that Song Minho is bound together to this campus, where Jinwoo teaches, so he is asking around, showing the picture, telling students to be cautious. 

It’s not his intention to eavesdrop but, on a bench, there is a distressed girl, talking on the phone.

“Jisoo, where are you? It’s like the earth has swallowed you down!” she protests, “the last thing I knew, you were walking the extra mile to help that man and, after that, you disappeared!” she continues and it hit Sungjin hard – the realisation that this is Minho’s doing, that he is behind this as well. He waits for the girl to hang up to approach her.

“Tell me what happened to your friend,” he sits next to her, his notebook opened on his lap, his eyes, kind, gleaming on her, encouraging her to open up.

She tells him the story: her friend, Kim Jisoo, was returning to the dorms with her when a man came across. He wore his wrist on a sling and was asking for help with the grocery.

“I found it strange since there aren’t shops around this area,” she says, “but she has always been too nice and sympathetic… But she didn’t come back. At first, I thought she might be staying with other peers, since it’s exams therm, or studying at the library… but never returned to our room, so I got scared. She never misses her favourite drama Kairos,” she sobs, tears rolling down. “And, this morning, I’ve seen these flyers about that serial killer and, I'm not sure but… What if he got Jisoo?”

“Can you tell me at what time happened it?” Nayeon looks at him with doleful eyes, at Sungjin’s warm smile.

“It was after our morning classes, so around 12 pm, more or less?” she replies, thinking. “She was wearing skinny jeans and a simple shirt over a casual pullover,” she recalls. “Wait,” she claps, “we took a picture that day,” and shows it to Sungjin.

“And, do you recall any particularity about the man? Hairstyle, clothes, the car...” he suggests. Nayeon tilts her head, trying to gather her recollections of the day.

“He was handsome, tanned skin, dark eyes, has his arm in a cast,” she depicts, “the car was fancy, old-fashioned. I think it was copper or bronze coloured?” she wonders. Sungjin nods and rummages with his phone, fidgeting. 

“Could be this one?” he offers, showing her a picture of Ted Bundy’s vehicle. Nayeon looks at it surprised, nodding. “Thank you, you have been of most help!” he says, leaving her.

He calls Seunghoon straight away.

They are tracking you, but you don’t care. It’s OK if they are searching, they won’t discover you, not unless you reveal yourself – and you won’t (you will only show up to Jinwoo). And so you wait in the same place, waiting for him to come.

Instead, a cop arrives, asking around, your picture printed in one of his hands, so you hurriedly pushes down your cap, hide beneath a book, pretend to read under the sunshine before classes resume. He passes you, unnoticed and you let go a sigh. But he has your description, you aren’t safe here – he has spoken to an unexpected witness. Maybe you’ll have to act, make her disappear, beat her as you pummelled Jisoo. It is what she deserves but, with the police in the vicinity, you don’t dare – but you will remember her, Im Nayeon, Jisoo’s best friend.

* * *

“So he has killed again,” Seunghoon sighs, “we should search on hikers tracks, that’s where the original he is copying off left the corpse,” he explains, sending off his peers, out to look for that girl.

It takes two hours for them to discover a young woman beaten up, strangled to death, abandoned on a mountain path for hikers. She was wearing a fancy dress, silvery, the shades of water, full make-up making her look even more like a pretty doll – pale, perfect, glistening under the trees, a fairy tale turned into a nightmare.

“Her name was Kim Jisoo. Her friend, Im Nayeon, was who talked with PC Sungjin,” PC Younghyun says. “She is coming to do the identification of the body, but he is positive it’s her. He saw a picture that matches with the corpse,” he finishes, handing Seunghoon another cup of coffee.

“Keep an eye on Nayeon,” Seunghoon commands, “I have the feeling she might be in danger,” and shakes his head. Younghyun nods, heading to the morgue to custody the girl – to not leave her alone.

“They found her, as professor Jinwoo suspected, at Inwansan mountain trekking course. Fully clothed, but they differ from the ones she was last seen wearing,” PC. Seungyoon exposes, showing Seunghoon the pictures taken by her friend, the morning before. “Jisoo was deposed last night, according to the temperature and the dew stuck on her skin; she was deposited around midnight, the forensic estimates” he blinks, stunned by the crime, “as usual, no imprints on her. There are not cameras surrounding the site, but we are tracking all the Volkswagen Beetle in Seoul, checking with renting shops and authorised dealers. So far, nothing,” he finishes, handing the report to his superior.

* * *

There is only one way to stop you, Minho, and it has always been him: always Jinwoo - because you can't stop yourself, it has to be him, your knight in shining armour, saving you from the monsters inside your head, the eclipse that will cloud the sins in your sky. Until when will he have you waiting? How many more do you have to kill for him to notice? For him to come to your rescue? You have made it so clear. Now it's all up to Jinwoo.

So far, though, he hasn’t taken the bait: he has been dodging and you have been killing, continuing with this grotesque slow-dance you have been performing, distance cutting you deep – every inch away from Jinwoo hurts like hell. But you swallow it raw, welcoming the pain because it is a reminder of what is waiting for you at the end of this journey, your last destination, your Jinwoo. And so you pursue this, listening to the music of your heart, the cries of those who have perished under your feet, crawling for mercy, for piety – but they were asking the wrong person, it doesn't depend on you, it’s all on Jinwoo.

“I’m doing it all for you,” you mumble, staring at the prints wallpapering your room: all of him, everywhere you look, you are welcomed with Jinwoo’s grace and you feel blessed – and one step closer to get to him, to enjoy his company, for real.

From the TV, you hear the police whereabouts – but it is just the obvious move after you have frighted the whole population of this town. You like the sound of your name being pronounced, rolling on their lips, as if a curse, a jinx – it makes you feel powerful, important. You smile at your reflection, at the picture they are showing on the screen – it makes you justice. Jihoon agrees – sedated, from the bed you have made just for him to rest. You sit by him, talk to him about your plans, about your next move and he listens, always attentive, always so kind – he accepts you the way you are, without questioning your methods, your skills, your way of living. For a month or so he has been your anchor, the only person that you trust – and maybe it’s because he has promised you to stick by your side, his lips always sealed, your secrets save with Jihoon.

* * *

"Ted Bundy used to kidnap you girls around universities sites. I want protection in all of the surrounding areas, every team, I want them patrolling around. And that everybody, young, old, men, women, memorise his face. I don't want him to be able to step into this city, understood?" DC. Seunghoon commands, dismissing them, scattering them through the city, to play hide and seek with Minho: the vilest criminal that he has never encountered.

But it doesn’t matter what he does, it won’t be enough. Catching Song Minho is like trying to trap smoke – volatile, elusive. He has evaded all the department’s efforts, continues free to kill at his will, unmatched, untraceable, mocking them with every new victim.

“She doesn’t own this clothes,” Nayeon weeps, Jisoo’s body covered, her skin crawling, icy. She has held her hand, watched her, stunned, disbelieving that she was dead. The girl on the stretcher wasn’t the Jisoo she has known: she would have never worn such a thing, her lips wider than her mouth, coloured in purple and, yet, she was gone, traces of ropes all over her neck, flowers that tainted her, poisoning her, suffocating her last breath.

Seunghoon nods, listening from the door of the morgue. It’s cold inside, the light white, flashing, proficiently. Once Nayeon is out, the soft whines dissipating through the corridor, he steps in, talks with the forensic.

“Her stomach contents reveal that she was drugged. The drubbing was while she was sedated, that’s why she didn’t resist or fight, she was knocked out,” and it’s such a relief that she hasn’t suffered, that her death was peaceful – that only her body was corrupted, disturbed. “We also found a letter in between her breasts,” the doctor says, showing a plastic bag, zipped, with a rolled paper, sealed with a red lace – his brand. “There aren’t any other marks, he was wearing gloves,” he points out, dismissing Seunghoon.

* * *

There is police all around but this won’t impede you, won’t halt your commitment, no. After all, Seoul is not the centre of your life, you can go elsewhere, find new victims there and DC Seunghoon will be shocked, surprised. After all, he hasn’t the resources to cover all the fields you can act in, so it’s easy to find a new college nearby, to encounter a new victim to fulfil your plans. In the end, you haven’t restricted yourself to just one place, one city to terrorist – like a god, you are omnipresent, you are everywhere, you are the face of fear, the name that freezes the country.

She is so petite, she can hardly by a teenager. Small and chubby, with apple cheeks and a bright smile, she carries a tote bag on one hand and her honesty on the other. She is perfect.

She comes to you willingly but with some qualm. She looks around before trotting to your aid: she takes your grocery bags and leads the way to the car. She seems confused by it – might as well have seen the news on the TV, - but, nevertheless, she puts them in. She is struck when she looks sideways at you, at the flash of silver that blows into her skull. It strikes on her bones, rendering them, the sound of it like bells. She hits the back seats, falling flat on them, unconscious.

You drive home again, with a pretty load to murder.

She is a graceful flower, a tiny daisy you are reaping, putting on a vase to examine, scrutinize. She is still sleeping on the floor, her face gleaming like the moon, argent. Her cheeks are soft and marshmallowy, warm to the touch and you find it entrancing, your fingers digging into her smooth skin, creating hollow caves.

You don’t avidly want to kill her; but you can’t keep her, either – Jihoon is the only exception, for now, until the moment he will have to show his loyalty to you, Minho, helping you out to reach for the stars, to reach for Jinwoo. So you end her torment with your hands around her neck, pressing on it until it springs, splits and exhales one last puff of air. She won’t torture your mind, not when she will be, if Jinwoo hurries, your last.

Her cheeks are puffy, sweet: she is tiny and graceful wearing a long dress, golden hues around her neck, the perfect make-up, her hair done in waves of curls falling over her sides, brownish, short bangs shielding her almond-shaped, hazel eyes. You trace her profile, brush her short flocks, put them back where they belong. She smells like apples and cinnamon rolls and you kiss her flesh, tasting it on your tongue: sweet, appealing like Jinwoo. She seems a little princess of a foreign realm, maybe a fairy that has come to bless your soul; she gleams under the flames of the chimney, resting her head on your lap, your hands cradling her small body, the strangling marks revealing under your caress, blemishing in red hues and purple.

On a bed of roots and fallen leaves, she appears to be a sleeping beauty, and you leave her to rest in this place, contemplating the sight belong: the city spreading all around in tilting lights and flashing colours. She won’t be there any more but, up here, touching the sky, she can see the hives of lives under her glance. You arrange her dress once more, make sure the settlement is complete before driving back, leaving Lee Suhyun behind.

* * *

Seunghoon leaves him alone to deal with the content of the note – the one that Song Minho has hide for them to find.

It is a hoax: nothing he says can be factually true. Jinwoo has nothing to do with him, has no relation with him. It’s all lies what he is spewing, blatant and offensive and Jinwoo crumbles the paper on his fist, enraged, infuriated, thinking that, perhaps, it’s all because of him, that this is happening due to him, that he is the blamed one – not Minho. And it is dangerous, the thought swirling inside his head, spiralling down his mind like a torrent, a waterfall of culpability and shame and impotence because there is nothing he can do to stop him, nothing but to allow his mental fantasy to come true, to hand himself over to Minho – to allow him to own Jinwoo.

He knows now that he holds the key, that he is the treat to catch him, the link. And he has a grasp of where to find him but going alone is a suicide – but bringing Seunghoon could trigger him, turn it all into ashes before it can even start, burning their only chance to catch him alive.

Jinwoo reads the letter again, crawls to his bed, sickened, deceived, guilt piling up, tripping on his stomach, chunking him inside, chunking him like Jinhwan. He needs to do something – needs to shake out the feeling of being invalid, of letting all rain on others when it is all interwoven with him, when he is the missing clue, the link that explains everything (his obsession, the one he wants to impress, the one for whom Minho is doing it all, it has always been him, it has always been for him: Jinwoo is the cause. And he can end it as well, he only needs to find him, to accept him into his life, to pretend that all he has done is all right.

PC Younghyun is about to call it a day when the phone of the office rings, indicating a new problem. He sighs, has been up until late, reading papers, trying to figure out a plan, the map of Minho’s mind. He looks around but the other officers are out, patrolling, so he has to take the call.

The girl at the other end stutters, worriedly, explaining to him that her room-mate is missing. His heart skips a beat – he senses it on his guts that it is Minho again, that there will be another victim soon. He tries to reassure the caller but, deep down, he knows there is nothing to do, that it’s already too late to save her friend, to find her alive and well – that she has been dead since she stepped into Minho’s brownish Volkswagen, that her time was shortened. He scribbles down the details she has to offer and appoints to dial DC Seunghoon as quick as possible.

“We will do our best to find her, Lee Hayi,” he promises: and he will sough her everywhere, remove mountains and rivers if needed – he will aid their team to stop that disgrace that is Song Minho, who single-handedly has terrorised the whole nation.

“So now he has moved to Suwon,” Seunghoon notes. The idea has crossed his mind but he has not enough forces to cover up the whole region – and the fucker must know, of course. He scratches his head, looks desperate – the situation totally out of control. “Send someone to track her, she probably lies on a trekking course in one of the hills of Seoul,” he explains – he is too tired to even command, he just wants to visit Jinwoo, to fall sleep with him pressed on his chest on the couch, listening to his heart-beats, the only calming sound. But Seunghoon can’t allow himself a moment of complacence, not when there is so much at stake, so many other girls in danger.

He leads them – PC Younghyun, Seungyoon and Sungjin, - all the way to the summit of Mount Naksan. The view below is impressive, the city quibbling over like a tread of gold, beautiful. But he hasn’t come here to enjoy the panoramic and, the sight he has to face is not pleasant. Suhyun sits leaning on the ancient wall of the castle.

“Close the path and cordon off the whole area,” he says, the camera prepared to document the site. He pats the body but, this time, finds nothing – Minho has nothing more to say.

“There are some boots marks,” PC Seungyoon notices, “but this is a concurred place, it could belong to anybody,” he concludes but takes notes anyway.

“I know. We won’t find anything here, so let's bring her down to the station, let’s wait for the autopsy, ask around.”

* * *

Jinhwan's heart glows in the darkness, submerged in a solution of water and luciferase. It gleams yellowish, lighting up the room, palpitating like a firefly. You have been talking to his bones, chalking his skull that you cup, fitting in between the palms of your hands, it's hollow cavities staring at you, blankly. It looks pretty now, decorating your shelves, the place where you store Jinwoo’s pictures – your research, your love, all the pieces you have collected over the years that had belonged to Jinwoo (and you can't help yourself but rub your fingers along the length of your boner that is ready to welcome him in; it's hard to hold it, the urge, the craving, the lust that baths you whenever you think about Jinwoo, remembering all the mornings contemplating him from your window, the smell of flowers lingering on his sheets, all the times you tossed on them, imagining waking up next to Jinwoo. 

Minho, the moment has come and it is now. He will be yours by the end of tonight - you will be able to relish onto his lips, to try his tongue, to engulf him whole, drinking the air from his words. From the distance, Jinhwan nods at your decision, encourages you to go, to wait for Jinwoo - he supports you fully, have seen the adoration painting your eyes while watching Jinwoo. 

Security is nothing to you, you have sneak through more, you cover your face with a cap, carry a backpack and a bunch of books on your hands. It is so easy to pass by them, they don’t even flinch an eye on your way – a kids game.

You wait for Jinwoo in the auditorium, the place where you first met, where you fell in love. It has been years since then but this place remains the same as if time hasn’t flowed through it, if you close your eyes, you can see him standing in front of you, his voice filling the room, filling your mind with images of two. It is overwhelming, the fact that, soon, he will be there, with you, in this same room, finally, for real; that you will be able to touch his skin, to hold his hand, to kiss his glossy lips the way you have been dreaming off for the past four years – the fantasy of him is coming through the air, becoming a reality.

It feels impossible when the doors open and he comes in with the force of the whole universe exploding in his eyes, sparks of undeniable love. He steps into you gracefully, alone, as you knew – you have your eyes always on him, tracking him down.

“Finally, you came,” you say and your voice is drowned with all the sentiments that emanate from your heart to Jinwoo. Your fingers move, reaching to him, tracing the surface of his face, sliding on his bones, his cheeks, soft, warm, wet with drops of joy, salt covering the scars you left on him – the pain you caused to Jinwoo and that you will always regret. You hug him and he leans on you, accepting your love, accepting all that you are willing to give him – everything, you live for him, all the air you breathe in is meant for Jinwoo. “My love, you have no clue of how much I missed you, how much I need you,” you mumble inside his hair that holds the taste of spring and summer fireworks and happiness. “Now I need you to come home with me,” you say and Jinwoo doesn’t fight, he nods at your suggestion, holds into you, follows you.

* * *

Minho treats Jinwoo with so much care and affection: as if Jinwoo were the sole reason for his existence. It might be, his eyes are flooded with stars watching Jinwoo move, watching Jinwoo breathing – the world is shaped because of Jinwoo.

He takes Jinwoo’s hand and, with a soft smile, he releases an injection.

“This won’t hurt, I can’t trust that you won’t run away, not yet, love. And I can’t allow that, you are too precious to me and I’ve been waiting all my life to have you,” Jinwoo nods, allows the needle to pierce his skin, the Veronal swirling into his blood torrent, closing his eyes, limping his body that slants towards Minho who envelops his frame, surrounds him with his arms, pulls him into his embrace, relaxed, his fingers cupping his sides. It is so warm, so elating, to have Jinwoo like this, to have him finally. His face slides to his shoulder and the air trickles Minho’s cheeks – sweet, daringly, Minho strokes his hair -silky, dark like a sin,- his fingers sink into it like hot water on winter. His skin is so pale but so warm, he doodles his love on it, sketches of moments that are now real.

Minho drags Jinwoo outside, pushes him inside his car, carefully, lovingly. Nobody asks, nobody suspects – this late there is nobody around. He talks to him, hands twined, his fingers reaching for Jinwoo’s lifeless ones. It’s hard to contain his emotions, his glance falling on Jinwoo, sleeping next to him, muscles sedated, his sight darkened, unable to speak but Minho speaks to him anyway, explains all he has done, all that he is ready to do to keep Jinwoo, to make him happy – to keep him always.

“Here, love,” he mushes on his neck, kissing him – and it is so magic, just as he has imagined. He helps Jinwoo to undress, puts him to bed, lays next to him, his head on his chest, listening to his heart-beats – he counts them up to ten before kissing him again. It is addicting, even if he can’t respond, even if his lips are cold, lifeless, he purchases them again and again until seeing red, until he can’t refrain the urge to ravish him whole, to take him down. “But I want you to feel it as well, to make you feel the same rush I feel,” he growls into his ear, licking and nipping, his hands tracing his ribs, drawing slow patterns, writing down the names of all his murders.

He wants to touch, to explore, to lust over Jinwoo, to devour every bit of him, to mark him as his own but he has something to do first, he needs to wake up Jihoon and Jinwoo – they have to meet, too.

* * *

Jihoon coughs, taken aback. He has been in a coma for a while so you let him get used to this, to the lights, the sounds, the fact that there is a knife pressed against his throat, to be awake, alive - he has been sleeping for too long. Jinwoo, sitting up on the bed, looks around, confused, shocked, panicked.

“Let me introduce you,” you say, smiling, your hand on Jihoon’s back, supporting him. “This is Jinwoo, Jihoon, the one I told you about. And I’m so happy that you are finally meeting each other,” you beam at the sight of Jinwoo, how he is fighting to get to you. “Don’t stress yourself, love, I’ll be with you in a minute but, first, you have to choose,” you smirk – you know he will choose you. “I’ll free Jihoon if you swear to always be with me,” you explain. The treat is easy: a life for a life and Jinwoo is too kind to refuse – and you love him enough to condone whatever treason he might commit. Jinwoo’s eyes are imploring, swarms of lights swirling inside of them, his voice soft, clean.

“Please,” he begs and it is so, so pleasant to hear, you want him to repeat it with you pinning him, with your body atop of his, pressed over the mattress, his skin fresh, flashing for you to see. “Please, let him go,” he repeats and well, if it’s what he wants, you will gladly give it to Jinwoo.

The knife sinks into Jihoon’s neck, slicing gracefully, splitting scarlet diamonds, slashing his throat, sliding down the surface, dipping it in red. Your hand soaks on his blood and his body collapses on you just to fall on the floor, into a puddle of his own spilt plasma, woodenly. You kick him out of your way, you need to run to catch Jinwoo – and Jihoon’s life is now on him, he has elected for him to be released, freed of his suffering, of the trap that you have set for him to be lured over. Jinwoo crumbles down to the ground, sobbing, hands shielding his eyes, protecting him from facing the death. You kneel down, hold him tight, hold him dearly, drawing circles on his back, reassuringly - you have done what he asked for, he should be elated. You push Jihoon's corpse aside, not even bothering to close his eyes - he is gone, he won't be of use any-more, you don't longer hanker for a friend, your yearning is over; Jinwoo is here, in front of your profaning glance, what else would you require for? Nothing at all. . You dispose of him, turn you back to his friendship, stepping on Jihoon's face to get to where Jinwoo lays, expectant, crying in anticipated ecstasy for what is waiting for him - for the gift you will bath him with, your hands on his skin.

“He is free now,” you assure him - free of you; he wouldn't survive without you, not after what you have done to him, not after all these past days sedated, all the benzodiazepines you have drowned on him to keep him happy, quiet, unbothered, -but Jinwoo won’t listen, he shakes his head, shakes you, his hands hitting, smashing against you. You kiss him instead, urgently, ardently, swallowing his complains. This time he fights you, but it only gets you more aroused, hot and heavy, all your body shivering in excitement and delight, craving for his fingers on you, his lips searching, souring you - you want to devour his complaints, his pleas, his cries. Your desire is overwhelming but you won’t force Jinwoo – you want to fuck him hard, pant his name, chanting it like a mantra, like an enchantment. But Jinwoo isn’t collaborating, he refuses your advancements – his yells and kicks and tries to escape your clasp. You have to do something even if this is not what you have planned, you have to tie him in order to possess him, to be able to undress his flesh, reveal the marvels that lay behind and that you are so lusting over, relaying into thoughts and phantoms and grumbling his name between pressed lips on his side. 

* * *

Seunghoon tears down the door, coming in banging. The scene developing in front of his eyes is surrealist, coming out from a psychotic mind. Jinwoo is tied down on the floor, trembling, faintly breathing, nearly collapsing, next to a broken corpse soaked in blood. Minho is staring at Jinwoo, too focused to even flinch at the arrival, clinches onto him, grasping his side, fingers around his waist, pulling him to his embrace. And Seunghoon doesn’t come in alone – behind him, PC Seungyoon jumps into action, rolls over Minho, his chest on the ground, capturing the criminal that has threatened the police force for so long. 

“I did it all for you, Kim Jinwoo,” he proclaims, frantically, holding onto Jinwoo, clutching into his ragged form, “every kill I committed it was to see you, to make you proud. Tell me you are proud of me,” he demands, crouched on the floor, a lame picture, begging to Jinwoo. “You are, you are, I know, don’t need words, I know you deep down. We are alike, soul mates, we are made to be together, as a pair,” Minho continues pathetically, his voice ragging, chanting, raising like wavering oceans. "He is the one, he is the one, you lot don’t understand but Jinwoo is mine, he is mine we can’t be parted, I’m inside of his mind now!” and he looks maniac, orbs popping up, seizing at Jinwoo’s sleeve, not letting go. “We are one!” he proclaims, exhilarated, even while Seungyoon is dragging him out. His face is contorted, his eyes still lingering on Jinwoo, searching for his approval – but it is impossible for Jinwoo to see, he is protected by Seunghoon, who is kneed down by his side, checking his vital signs, the pulse of his heart. It is ragged, shattered, but he is alive and so Seunghoon holds him, brushes the hair stuck on his forehead tenderly. 

“An ambulance is on the way,” he says, rubbing his temples, Jinwoo laying across his lap, his hand gripping his wrist, counting the throbs of his veins.

There is nothing to do to save Pyo Jihoon; his carotid has been slashed - he has bled to death, the haemorrhage uncontainable. He is the last victim of Song Minho.

The press goes nuts to cover the news, to print every single detail they can get from the on-going investigation. DC Seunghoon is questioned and interviewed and praised, but he refutes all, saying that it is thanks to his team and Kim Jinwoo, the man who gave up his own safety to stop Minho. There are a lot of articles and reportage going on, circulating for months, revealing Minho’s obsession, his meticulous mind, how detailed and crafted he was, how he managed to fool the police – but how they detained him in the end.

Minho is sentenced to four life sentences, accused for the heinous murders of Amber Liu, Bae Suzy, Kim Jennie, Park Rose, Lisa Manoban, Eun Jiwon, Kim Jiwon, Kim Hyojong, Kim Hyunah, Kim Jinhwan, Kim Jisoo, Lee Suhyun and Pyo Jihoon, as well as for the kidnapping of Jihoon and Jinwoo, for which he is convicted to forty years.

“He won’t see the light of the sun ever again,” Seunghoon says, kissing Jinwoo’s temples. He is being released from the hospital after a week, going finally home – to the new place he has bought for him, away from all the memories of Minho.

Seunghoon has juggled between taking care of Jinwoo and the investigation, he has kept Jinwoo well informed – but he has disregarded all the detail concerning Jinwoo (he doesn’t need to know, not yet, how Minho crept inside his house, how many pictures of him he owned (and what Minho did with them, how they were dirtied with white, crusty cum, crumbled by lusted fingers), all the plans he mastered for him, to take Jinwoo with him, out of the country, all the ways he had mastered to own him. Seunghoon has seen all the sketches, disgust filling him, all the ways Minho plotted to fuck with Jinwoo, he has sought them over pages filled with lust and crave - but he is safe now, Minho won't be able to touch him ever, not as long as he stays by his side.

Jinwoo smiles at him, allowing Seunghoon to help him walk outside the ward, back into the light. It has been hard but the bruises are fading away – but the things he has seen will be always engraved inside of his lids. He breathes in fresh, clean air and relies on Seunghoon who has always been his constant, the force that drove him in, that helped him go through Minho.

“It was very clever of you to get a beeper, to keep you localized” PC Sungjin beams at the view of Jinwoo. He rushes to shake his hand, happy to see him regaining his health, smiling next to Seunghoon. Jinwoo ruffles his hair with affection, smiles back at him. He is there to drive them home, finally. Seunghoon smirks at him, fingers intertwined. Indeed, it was a clever move but it worked only because Minho was too enamoured, too obsessed with Jinwoo to check him out, to search for devices that could get him tracked. His naivety had saved Jinwoo, has solved the case.

The police find enough evidence of his crimes to corroborate that Song Minho isn't mentally ill, a crazy man. No tribunal will judge him as a perturbed person because he isn't insane, not with all the proves to back up how he planned it to the smallest detail, there isn't a way out for Minho; he has been jailed without furlough.

Jinwoo follows the trials and tribulations of the jury but doesn't have the courage to assist the courts, not even when he is called as a witness - it is too soon to revive it all, he isn't ready, but Seunghoon stands by his side, protecting, shielding, keeping him warm, melting fears and tears. Seunghoon presents them the evidence collected, explains to the jury how Minho murdered without any remorse a total amount of thirteen people in monstrous ways, recreating the same situation as the most famous serial killers - and he names a few, not wanting to overwhelm them. The whole process last four days and the jury sentence him without hesitation, with one voice. 

* * *

They might have caught you, imprisoned you, Minho, but you have won the match, you get your reward: Jinwoo will never forget you, you are now engraved on his mind, never free of your shadow. He won’t ever be the same, not after you have played with his mind. He can’t escape, you are all that it’s on his head – even if you die, you will live inside his memories, never far away, the true engraved with fire on his mind, that he is the culprit, the reason of all these deaths was him and only him – that he could have saved them if he wanted, but he didn’t and so, they perished under your hands.

Yes, Jinwoo can’t shake you out of his system, just like you can’t get rid of this lingering feeling of belonging to him. And you will never part from him, always stuck on his mind – and you laugh maniacally, hysterically, because all you have done was worth it, you are forever over his skin, tattooed on his core – whenever he goes, you go with him like a second mind. It is perfect, it is your doing, what you wanted for Jinwoo.

And Jinwoo will soon come to visit, he will want to study you and then you’ll have your lost opportunity to be with him, even if it is between bars, it’s all you need – a holy second with him.

This is not the end, it's just another beginning, and you will take any crumb they leave. 


End file.
